Broken
by CatsbytheGreat
Summary: Peter has been injured on a campaign and Edmund must continue without him.


**Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or Narnia. They belong to C.S. Lewis. **

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* * *

**"The High King is injured."

The words tore through Edmund more than any weapon of the enemy ever could, and for a moment he was left out of breath. He hadn't seen Peter for a majority of the battle and that had worried him. He hadn't allowed himself to think much of it, but now everything he had been worried about was confirmed. These were the words that Edmund never wanted to hear.

"How bad?" he managed.

The centaur who had reported to the young king inclined his head. "The wounds are…severe."

"He needs the cordial." Edmund ran a hand through his hair in frustration. The centaur hadn't said that the injury was most likely fatal, but Edmund knew that was what he meant. "Bring me to my brother and then put together a guard to bring him to the castle. I would like General Oreius to accompany him."

The centaur nodded and brought Edmund to the tent in which Peter was being kept.

The sight nearly broke Edmund's heart, but he pushed all these feelings back.

Peter lay on a cot, his clothes soaked with blood while a Badger worked over him, trying to sew the wounds. His face was pale, far too pale, and Edmund was surprised that he wasn't already dead. He hesitated before kneeling beside his brother.

"Peter," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I don't…" He choked back a sob. "I don't know if you can hear, but I'm going to get you to Cair Paravel. I can't…come with you, because the fell beasts are still out there. Don't worry; I'll find them and make sure they won't do harm to Narnia again." He swallowed. "I love you." He took Peter's hand, which felt uncomfortably cold, into his own. "Please," he murmured.

Peter did not react, he did not wake up. Edmund would have mistaken him for dead had Peter's chest not been slowly rising and falling. But the breaths looked painful, forced. Edmund stood up just as Oreius entered the tent.

"I am ready, Sire," the general said.

Edmund nodded. "Take him, and may Aslan be with you."

Oreius took Peter up in his arms and, with one last nod towards Edmund, exited the tent.

The Badger who had been tending to Peter glanced up at Edmund. "What shall we do now, Sire?"

Edmund took a deep breath. "Now, we keep moving."

* * *

The Narnian army was clearly distraught by the injury of the High King, made even worse by the fact that none of them knew whether Peter had survived or whether he had died. Still, Edmund did his best to distract both the army and himself, and they kept moving.

The nights were the worst. Edmund could hardly sleep, because when he did he saw Peter dead in all ways imaginable. He saw his sisters, grieving. He saw many things he did not wish to see. The not-knowing terrified him and had he let it, it could have destroyed him.

So he absorbed himself in finding the fell beasts, which was what he was supposed to be doing, and held on to the hope that Peter_ could_ be alive. This hope was the only thing holding him upright at the moment.

The army trudged on.

Those who worked more closely with King Edmund, such as the generals of the army, noticed that he was more agitated than usual. And there were those other times where the young king would simply stare ahead, lost in some thought. No one disturbed him because no one wished to. They all knew how easily Edmund could break and not one of them wished to be the one to break him.

All of them were grateful to be here with him, however, because not one of them wanted to be the one to deliver news of King Peter's death, should it turn out that Peter had indeed passed away.

* * *

One night, the very same Badger who had taken care of Peter when he was injured walked over to King Edmund as he stared into the sky, deep in thought. "May I?" he asked.

Edmund looked vaguely surprised to see the Badger there. He nodded, and the Badger sat down.

"Thinking about your brother, then?"

Edmund nodded and then turned to glance at the Badger. "Speedrunner, is it?"

"Yes," Speedrunner the Badger said with a small smile. "It is, your Majesty."

Edmund shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just…my mind hasn't quite been…here, these past few days." He turned pale quite suddenly.

"I understand," Speedrunner said. "Is your Majesty alright?"

"Yes." Edmund did not look fine. He swallowed. "You took care of Peter when he was wounded." A deep breath. "Do you think…he made it? Given the circumstances, and the severity of his wounds. I mean, that is to say, was the wound really…?" He trailed off and turned away for a moment, shaking.

Speedrunner now saw why Edmund felt the need to not think about Peter. He sighed. He did not know whether to be completely honest or to comfort the king. He felt that it was his duty to be honest.

"I do not like to say this," he answered, "but I must tell you the truth, sire. Your brother was nearly gutted by the axe of a Minotaur. I fear that…unless Oreius ran very fast, he would not have made it." The words were out in the open now.

Edmund's body jerked as though he had been stabbed. "I-I see," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "He-he probably hasn't made it." He shook his head. "The castle was too far away, and centaurs can run fast but not _that_ fast, and he had lost too much blood, and-" He cut himself off and bent over, burying his face in his hands.

"Now, don't lose hope," Speedrunner insisted, putting a paw to the king's back in a gesture of comfort. "I did not mean for you to lose hope, sire. You must remember that you and your brother always have Aslan."

It took a few moments for Edmund to gather the strength to look up, and when he did he smiled grimly at the Badger. "Thank you," he said. He looked up at the sky. "That is what I'm counting on."

* * *

A full week after Peter had been taken back to Cair Paravel, the Narnians were trudging through forest, somewhere in the vicinity of the White Witch's castle, when an arrow flew through the air and nearly hit Edmund.

Edmund jumped and turned in his saddle just as another arrow whipped past him, and then a third managed to hit one of the centaurs, piercing his heart. He fell to the ground, dead.

Edmund turned pale and his hands shook. Somehow he managed to find his voice and yell, "At arms! We are under attack!"

Then the full attack came.

Fell beasts seemed to pour out of the forest from all directions, raining attacks on the Narnians. Edmund noticed that they were at a disadvantage. Narnians and fell beasts alike were killed left and right, but he was so engaged in the battle himself that he could not tell which side was losing more.

The only thing Edmund knew was that these creatures had already caused enough damage, and he would not allow any more of it.

Filled with a new sort of rage, he fought enough for both himself and his brother. Every fell beast he defeated made him think of his brother who wasn't there, and this only caused him to fight harder. He ignored his exhaustion and any minor wounds acquired during the battle. He wanted this finished, _now_.

He fought fast and hard and he was so absorbed in the battle that he lost track of time until the last fell beast was slain and there was nothing left except the remnants of the Narnian army and a clearing full of bodies.

Breathing heavily, Edmund lowered his sword. "I believe," he said, his voice hoarse from shouting, "that we have won."

The army cheered, and then set about the tasks of cleaning their weapons, clearing the forest of the bodies, and taking count of the Narnians who had died, as well as taking care of the wounded. Everyone was exhausted.

In the midst of all this, a Gryphon landed next to Edmund, who was meticulously cleaning his sword. He noticed the creature's presence but did not look up. He did not want to look up.

"I could go on like this forever," he murmured aloud, still staring at his sword. "The moment you tell me what news you have will change my life forever. I could simply go on not knowing for a while longer, hold on to my hope, whether it be true or false." He stood up, slowly, as though the movement pained him. He looked the Gryphon in the eye. "Please," he whispered, having meant to say the word more clearly, but it seemed he was not capable of speech.

The Gryphon inclined his head in a bow and then looked up at the king. "Your brother, the High King Peter, lives. General Oreius made it to Cair Paravel in record time and the cordial was administered, and he is recovering quite well."

Edmund choked on his words. "Th-thank you." He could not quite believe it; against all odds, his brother lived. He stared up at the sky. "Thank you, Aslan." Then he looked back at the Gryphon, and he fell to his knees and began to sob.

The Gryphon extended a wing to rest on Edmund's back. Edmund continued to sob harder than he had ever sobbed before. How many times had he pictured Peter's funeral? How many nights had he lain there, without his brother, imagining that the rest of his life would be that way? How many times had he blamed himself for Peter's injury?

How many times had Edmund believed his heart to be broken?

In a way, it was. Edmund had been through much during the past week without acknowledging it until now, as he wept openly on the ground in the middle of a forest clearing made battle ground. He had thought his brother to be dead, but he hadn't known. There had been that hope, which could have been either his saving grace or his complete ruin.

Luckily, Peter was alive. This time, hope had saved Edmund.

He found he could not quite get up off the ground for some time. He was relieved, he was shaken, he wanted that sort of thing never to happen again. His heart was beating rapidly in his chest and he felt sick knowing how close it had really all been, how easily it could have gone the other way. He sat on the ground, alive because his brother was alive. He could have just as easily been ruined had his brother been dead.

Edmund stood up, dusting himself off. He looked around and wondered how he could have possibly survived the past week. He swallowed. He was surrounded by dead bodies. They could have easily been Peter. He shook his head to rid himself of the image and closed his eyes, summoning up an image of Aslan.

"Please," he whispered, a plea coming from the very depths of his soul. "Please, Aslan, _never _again."


End file.
